Hard Lessons
by celticgal1041
Summary: "It had been a hard lesson, but he'd eventually learned that it was best if he faded into the background." A series of tags to chapters 13-16 of "Learning it the Hard Way" by AZGirl.
1. New Reality

**A/N:** This short story is a series of four tags that are meant to complement chapters 13-16 of AZGirl's story "Learning it the Hard Way", which she generously wrote for my birthday. Chapters will be posted weekly, following updates to her story. I encourage you to check out her wonderful fic if you haven't yet had the chance, because these tags won't make much sense otherwise.

Thanks to AZGirl for both the inspiration for this story and for proofreading. Remaining mistakes are mine!

* * *

Part 1 of 4

Watching Aramis and Porthos walk away together, the two men's shoulders almost close enough to touch, tugged at d'Artagnan's breaking heart. In the past, they would have been three abreast, his own concern and caring for Athos having earned him the right to walk at their sides. Now, it was all he could do to stay out of his former mentor's way, inadvertently inciting the elder man's wrath simply by being present.

Trying to save himself some pain, he dragged his eyes away from the retreating backs of his friends, his gaze catching Laurens', the man shrugging and throwing him a sympathetic look, accompanied by a half-smile. d'Artagnan did his best to return it, certain he'd failed miserably if his comrade's reaction was anything to go by.

Giving up, he allowed his face to once more fall lax, turning to make his way to his room. While he appreciated the other man's efforts, the fact that he was now being regarded with pity carved at his soul. Chalk it up to his Gascon pride, or his streak of stubbornness that ran a mile wide – he would give up his commission before allowing this to become his new reality. The thought did little to console him as he faced another night alone in his room.

The following morning, he watched the three Inseparables surreptitiously from the edge of the courtyard, holding himself sideways behind one of the beams that held up the walkway running above his head. That the men were still fast and loyal friends was indisputable as d'Artagnan noted the way in which Aramis and Porthos flanked the older man, Athos appearing pale and drawn between them. Though they held themselves tall as they strode confidently through the practice yard to join the other Musketeers at morning muster, the Gascon could see the tell-tale signs that spoke of a weariness that pierced them to their cores.

d'Artagnan ached to see the men he loved like brothers in such a state. His feet almost began carrying him forward until Athos' errant glance swept over him, the censure in the man's gaze freezing him in place. Wordlessly, he fell in line with the others in the regiment, carefully placing himself near the back and out of the older man's sight.

* * *

 _"_ _What use can the King's Guard have for a mere farm boy?" Athos questioned haughtily. Though he'd left the mantle of nobleman far behind him, d'Artagnan could easily see how the man would have commanded the attention and respect of everyone around him. It made him both proud and sad to see this side of his former mentor, but the thought fled from his head almost as quickly as it had arrived._

 _"_ _We need strong arms and backs like Porthos', and keenness of sight and steady hands like Aramis'," Athos continued on as he paced in front of d'Artagnan, his nose tipped upwards in disdain while his hands remained clasped behind his back._

 _"_ _Perhaps if you embodied more of those traits, then we wouldn't have had such a hard time dispatching a group of ill-equipped robbers. My friends tell me that you're not new to soldiering, yet you've not yet learned to anticipate. A Musketeer must be ever vigilant, intensely aware of everything happening around them, appearing just at the right moment to protect their brothers-in-arms before their comrades even become aware of the danger threatening them." Athos gave a disgusted shake of his head. "If you're the best that we can attract these days, we'd be better off welcoming those from the ranks of the Red Guards."_

Athos' words had been intentionally cruel and had cut him to the core. Never could he have imagined such a sentiment directed at him by the other man, and it had taken all of his willpower to push away the hot tears that blurred his vision. Instead, he'd stood ramrod straight, looking at a point off in the distance, refusing to meet either Aramis' or Porthos' eyes, certain that the pity he would see there would accomplish what Athos' words had not and finally break him.

Although it had been difficult to bear Athos' dressing-down after their mission to Châlons, it had been even harder to accept what the mission represented – the end of his time as one of the Inseparables. It mattered little to him that Athos didn't remember their friendship because d'Artagnan still did, and there was no way he would be able to live with himself if his presence brought harm to the other man, or to either of his other two friends.

His decision made, d'Artagnan made his way to Treville's office as soon as he'd been dismissed by Athos, the weight of his newest punishment pressing heavily on his narrow shoulders as he moved. He was grateful that the Captain was present and able to speak with him, and wasted no time voicing his request.

"Captain, I think it would benefit me greatly to have more opportunities to work with some of the other men in the regiment," d'Artagnan stated, hooking his thumbs into his weapons belt as he affected a casual stance.

Treville was a shrewd man, and wasn't blind to the discord that had blossomed within his premiere four-man team. He'd hoped that time and an inability to avoid one another would erase the tensions that had appeared between Athos and d'Artagnan. Instead, it seemed that the time they'd spent together had only worked to further widen the rift that separated them. Steepling his hands as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk, he asked, "You have concerns about the quality of training you're currently receiving?"

d'Artagnan blanched at the insinuation that the others had somehow let him down, and rushed to correct the assumption. "No, Sir, and I apologize if that's what I implied."

Treville waited a moment for the Gascon to speak, but it appeared that the young man had nothing further to say. "d'Artagnan, I know things have been _different_ since Athos got hurt." The young man flinched, but remained silent as the Captain went on. "Head wounds are tricky and Athos is a good man. With time, I'm confident that the four of you will regain your balance."

The officer wore a sympathetic expression, trying his best to extend the Gascon some comfort. d'Artagnan had known that Treville would be aware of Athos' attitude towards him, but to find that things were so bad that the older man would now try and make him feel better was too much. Although he desperately craved the kindness that was being extended, he was immediately repulsed by the pity that darkened the Captain's pale blue eyes.

Biting his lip, he found himself looking away, his gaze landing unseeingly on the window as he swallowed thickly against the ball of emotions welling in his throat. It would be so easy to accept Treville's words and allow them to soothe his ragged soul. It was even possible that the hope they represented would be enough to carry him through the coming days and weeks until, finally, Athos came back to himself and accepted d'Artagnan back into their midst. But he knew he couldn't allow himself to cling to that tendril of hope.

Misery had enveloped him like a cloak in its cloying embrace, and while its hold was so tight that he often felt he might suffocate, having his hopes dashed yet again would be worse. Believing that he and Athos could once more be as close as brothers was the only thing that d'Artagnan craved, but losing it a second time would rip the heart from his chest. No, it was better to pull the shattered shards of his being together, the pieces fitting poorly, but still somehow making him whole. To hope was to commit to a path that would only end in greater suffering.

Realizing that he'd stood silent for too long, d'Artagnan turned his attention back to his commander, wetting dry lips with his tongue as he replied, "Yes, Captain, I pray for that day to come as well. However, I believe that my presence may be detrimental to Athos' recovery, so I'd appreciate it if you'd honour my request to work with some of the other men in the meantime."

It was not the way he wanted to see things go, but Treville could see how much it had cost the Gascon to stand by his request. Reluctantly, he nodded. "Very well." Seeing the almost palpable relief in the young man's eyes, he added, "You won't be able to avoid them completely, mind, but I'll make some adjustments to the roster that will have you spending less time together."

With a ridiculously grateful look, that almost had Treville rescinding his statement, the Gascon turned on his heel and left. It took the Captain a long time before he could banish the lingering image of the broken young man from his mind and return to his work.

* * *

To be continued next week...


	2. Boy!

**A/N:** Thanks for the lovely response to this set of tags. Hope you enjoy this next bit!

* * *

Part 2 of 4

"Boy." d'Artagnan cringed as he heard the dreaded moniker spout from Trottier's lips. That Athos held such contempt for him in his heart was bad enough, but to have the demeaning title now adopted by others in the regiment was taxing d'Artagnan's not inconsiderable willpower. Gritting his teeth against the retort that sat on his lips, he turned to face the other Musketeer with a questioning expression on his face, not trusting himself enough to speak without saying something he'd later regret.

Trottier was unfazed by the glare he was receiving, merely hitching a thumb over his shoulder as he pointed at the target range. "Pay attention, Boy, it's your turn to shoot."

With a patience he didn't truly feel, d'Artagnan offered a curt nod in reply, moving to take his place. Today's exercises were different, and didn't focus merely on target practice. Instead, each man was timed from the moment he began loading his pistol, before discharging at the painted bullseyes on the range. While shooting had never been his strength, he'd blossomed under Aramis' persistent tutelage and was now one of the faster men in the regiment when it came to reloading.

With a glance towards Soyer, who would count the amount of the time he took, he indicated his readiness to begin, catching sight of Athos watching him just as he turned his attention to his weapon. Trying and failing to ignore his former mentor's presence, he opened his flask of black powder, pouring some down the barrel of his pistol. Capping the flask, he dipped his hand into a leather satchel, this time retrieving a lead ball. His eyes darted upwards without his permission and landed on Athos' piercing gaze. The older man seemed unimpressed with what he'd seen so far, and d'Artagnan's eyes dipped downwards as his heart sped under the man's scrutiny.

Moving his hand to the tip of the barrel, he attempted to drop the shot into place, biting his lip hard as the sphere dropped from his fumbling fingers and struck the ground at his feet. He could feel heat immediately flushing his face as laughter erupted from the men around him. Forcing himself to concentrate, he moved more slowly and deliberately this time, even though his brain was screaming at him to hurry up. He picked another lead ball from the pouch at his side, his fingers nearly aching as he pinched it tightly before dropping it into the barrel of his weapon.

More clumsy movements pulled the ramrod free from the side of his pistol and he berated himself as he nearly dropped it, catching it at the last moment as it bounced off his hip. Repositioning both rod and pistol, he managed to tamp down his shot before replacing the latter item. He turned his body towards the target, looking past his hands which refused to stop their traitorous trembling. A voice in his head, which sounded incredibly like Athos', was already warning him that he was going to miss. Quelling the critical words, he drew a deep breath and prayed that his aim would be true.

His finger squeezed the trigger and he waited with bated breath for the sound of the discharge. Moments later, the men around him roared with laughter, Trottier's voice booming loudly above all the din. "Call yourself a Musketeer, Boy? Pistols generally work better when you prime the pan!"

d'Artagnan's eyes closed of their own volition as his still-extended arm slowly sank to his side. He could feel the dual heat of embarrassment and tears, and knew without looking that Athos' disapproving gaze was firmly pinned on his back. He had no choice but to gather whatever slender shards of his dignity remained and remove himself from the range. Breath hitching, he blinked away the excess moisture in his eyes as he turned stiffly to depart.

His movement halted abruptly as his suspicions were confirmed, and he watched as Athos shook his head in disgust and turned away. The sight nearly stopped the beating of d'Artagnan's fractured heart. Moments earlier he'd wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, but he now found himself rooted in place as Athos walked away from him. A man's shoulder impacted with his own, pulling a grunt from his mouth. "Get a move on, Boy; you're holding up the line."

d'Artagnan's face flushed once more at Trottier's words, his shame now mixing with a strong amount of rage. Not bothering to holster his pistol, he strode quickly away, his legs moving swiftly now that the spell cast by Athos' disdain had been broken. Though the day was bright with sunshine, d'Artagnan's back was bowed by the dark weight of his failure, and his gaze remained firmly rooted on the ground as he left the practice area and sought temporary solace in the stables.

The few minutes he'd spent with Aramis had been a precious gift, helping to soothe the wounds that Athos had slowly but surely been inflicting on him. Had the hurts been physical, d'Artagnan was certain that there would be no part of his skin that would be untouched, the elder man's words carving into his flesh with the same lethal precision with which he normally wielded his sword. As it was, d'Artagnan was grateful that the scars of his former mentor's words couldn't be seen, allowing him to hold onto the last shreds of his dignity.

* * *

 _"_ _d'Artagnan,"_ Aramis had said. There was nothing unusual how his friend had addressed him, and yet it had become a rare and treasured occurrence. Not only had Athos revoked any semblance of friendship, but he'd then compounded d'Artagnan's misery with the addition of harsh, judgemental words, not the least of which was calling him Boy.

Had Athos been the only one to do so, d'Artagnan would have been able to find it in his heart to forgive the act. He knew that head wounds could result in extreme changes in behaviour, and despite the fact that it had chipped away another piece of his heart, d'Artagnan would have understood. Athos had done too much for him, given so much of himself, that d'Artagnan would never be able to repay him, and forgiving his current behaviour would be one step closer to erasing his debt.

However, Athos' degrading term for him had spread like wildfire, with others in the regiment almost gleefully adopting it, making the majority of d'Artagnan's waking moments an exercise in humiliation and pain. Why had Athos decided on this particular derogatory title, the Gascon wondered as he continued mucking out the stables. Had it been anything else, it would not have been nearly as cruel, but this particular name held power over him.

 _"_ _My cup is empty, Boy." The words came from a man who bore a startling resemblance to his father. His uncle held up his empty glass to emphasize his words, his command for d'Artagnan to refill his cup clear._

 _Charles dutifully picked up the bottle that sat on a side cabinet and carefully poured a measure of wine into his uncle's cup. An unhappy noise from the man's throat indicated his displeasure with the amount of wine he'd received, and d'Artagnan tipped the bottle once more, filling the cup nearly to the brim. His uncle looked at him with a predatory smile, signalling his satisfaction while conveying absolutely no warmth._

 _Retreating to the other side of the room, d'Artagnan carefully observed his uncle from beneath the fringe of hair that had recently grown long enough to hang over his eyes. His hands played nervously with the hem of his shirt, which had earlier come untucked from his breeches, offering his quick-tongued uncle another opportunity to voice a disparaging comment. "That's no way for a young gentleman to dress, Boy."_

 _His uncle had arrived around midday and would spend the night. The following morning, he and Charles' father would travel to negotiate for a parcel of land that would allow year-round access to a stream, ensuring that their livestock would never want for water again. Although Charles was still young, he was mature for his modest age of eight. He listened carefully and learned all he could from his father, leading him to fully understood the importance of what he and his uncle were about to undertake. That fact didn't make the smallest dent in his dislike for the man sitting at the other end of the table._

 _Uncle Bernard had swept in as though he owned the place, and although he didn't visit often, Charles had no doubt that the man knew his name. Despite his father's repeated corrections, Bernard had continued to call him Boy, spiking the young man's shame and ire in equal measure each time he heard the derisive term._

 _Of course, it wasn't simply the name that bothered him, but the way in which his uncle watched for a reaction each time the word landed on his slim shoulders. It was as though he revelled in Charles' instinctive flinch as the dreaded term rolled from his lips. His eyes seemed to widen in anticipation of the lad's discomfort, a misplaced enthusiasm painting his features, which made him appear cruel and hard._

 _"_ _Boy, you'll have my boots cleaned before morning," Bernard drawled, drawing out the dreaded moniker and causing Charles to jump in response. As expected, the man was staring at him with a cold smile on his lips, clearly enjoying the reaction his words had provoked._

 _With a shaky nod, Charles moved to do as he'd been told, privately counting the hours until he would never have to hear his uncle call him Boy again._

d'Artagnan shook his head sadly as the memory released him from its grip. The old Athos would never have been so callous, especially if he'd known what the term represented to his friend. After his uncle had died, he'd believed the moniker had died with him; never had he envisioned a future in which it would be resurrected, and especially not by the man he'd called his best friend.

The lightness from Aramis' visit had dissipated with the painful reminiscence, and his arms moved heavily as he finished the remainder of his punishment. As he worked, a far corner of his mind reminded him that his punishment would never really come to an end while Athos' memories continued to elude him.

To be continued next week...

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks to AZGirl for proofing; remaining mistakes are all mine.


	3. Distance

**A/N:** Thanks for the continued interest in this series of tags, and I hope you enjoy this next part.

* * *

Part 3 of 4

Sparring against Athos had always held a special thrill. The older man was like the most talented sculptor when it came to swordplay, his words of correction and encouragement moulding d'Artagnan into a formidable opponent. No matter who Athos was matched with, he always seemed to know exactly the right move to make, executing each with a grace and agility that made it appear as though the man floated rather than having his feet tied to the ground like other mere mortals.

It had always brought d'Artagnan joy to observe his mentor, appreciating the skill with which Athos fought. Even better were the moments when he was the older man's partner, allowing him the unique opportunity to both observe and participate in the match.

There was no doubt that Athos had made him a better swordsman. He'd challenged d'Artagnan, not in ways that were demeaning or unkind, but in ways that appealed to his innate sense of curiosity and desire to improve, pulling from him a fine piece of art just as a sculptor did with a large block of stone. Except now it seemed that Athos was determined to destroy his creation, and d'Artagnan carried the resulting fractures that were slowly chipping away every bit of self-confidence his mentor had managed to instill.

Idly, d'Artagnan wondered if Athos would even care if it was pointed out to him what he was doing. He thought not, given the number of times he'd seen Aramis and Porthos try and reason with the man. That his former mentor's stubborn streak matched his own could never be disputed.

He pressed harder on the handkerchief that covered the still bleeding cut on his arm. Aramis had been shocked when he'd pulled away, refusing to allow the medic to do anything further. For a brief moment, a flash of hurt had appeared on the marksman's face, but rather than acquiescing to the man as he normally would, d'Artagnan had used the opportunity to walk away, a part of him glad for another chance to distance himself from his friend.

It hadn't been a conscious decision to do so, but now that he was alone in his room, he recognized the gift that fate had offered when Athos had hurt him. Aramis and Porthos continued to try and change Athos' mind, but as time progressed, it had become clear that they'd had to choose sides; Athos' situation, combined with the Gascon's actions, had ensured d'Artagnan had landed on the losing one. He didn't blame the men, recognizing that Athos' life was less than ideal after forgetting the last two years, but that knowledge did little to lessen the sting of the unintended rejection.

d'Artagnan startled mightily at the sound of rapping knuckles on his door, panicking for a moment with the thought that Aramis had followed him. That he now dreaded an act that only weeks ago would have warmed his heart pulled a bitter laugh from his throat. The sound of knocking was repeated and he sighed, resigning himself to the fact that his visitor would not be deterred.

"Come," he called as he prepared to convince the medic to leave him alone. When Filleul filled his doorway instead, d'Artagnan blinked in confusion. "What are you doing here?" he blurted, surprise overriding his thinking.

Filleul smiled warmly as he motioned inside with one hand, asking for permission to enter. Wordlessly, d'Artagnan nodded, still waiting for a reply. The Musketeer closed the door behind him, one hand lifting a satchel in his hands. "I came to see if your arm was alright." The Gascon's eyes drifted downwards to land on the stained kerchief, unaware of the drops of blood that had escaped to dampen his breeches.

Moving closer, and snagging the lone chair as he went, Filleul positioned it in front of d'Artagnan who was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I saw you sparring with Athos and know you suffered a cut."

"It's nothing," the Gascon replied dismissively, not even bothering to glance down at his arm.

Filleul offered another smile, this one tinged with a hint of something that d'Artagnan could only identify as sympathy, and he recoiled from the emotion as he repeated his earlier assertion. "Really, it's nothing."

The other man gave a small nod as he began withdrawing items from the bag he'd brought, laying out an assortment of medical supplies on the bed next to his patient. "You know Treville's stance on injuries," he commented mildly, placing the bag at his feet when he was satisfied he had everything he needed. "Best to let me take care of it now, rather than risking infection along with the Captain's wrath later."

It was true – Treville had no tolerance for idiot Musketeers who put themselves or their brothers-in-arms at risk because of untreated wounds. Given his current standing in the regiment, mostly due to Athos' contempt, he would be wise to listen to Filleul rather than providing additional evidence to support the former Comte's belief that he was utterly incompetent.

With a long exhale, d'Artagnan gave a grudging nod. "Excellent," Filleul grinned with satisfaction, his hands already reaching for the red-tinged cloth.

d'Artagnan was surprised at how hard it was for him to release his grip on the wound, his fingers having nearly molded themselves into place around his forearm. Concentrating, he managed to pry them free, allowing the other man to remove the ruined handkerchief.

As Filleul lifted the square of linen free, d'Artagnan was surprised at the amount of red that covered it, having been certain his injury was nothing more than a shallow scrape. Tsking at the sight of the wound, the Musketeer reached for the pitcher of water next to the young man's bed, wetting a clean cloth and then wiping the blood away from the slice.

Several swipes of the damp cloth revealed a relatively short cut, with fresh blood still welling forth near its centre where the blade had bitten deeply. Pressing against the skin and muscle around the slice drew a hiss of pain from d'Artagnan. "Sorry," Filleul murmured as he looked up. "I think it could use a couple stitches near the middle where it's the deepest. The rest should heal fine on its own."

d'Artagnan found himself pulling the injured arm back towards his chest, unhappy with the idea of the other man sewing his skin closed. "I'm sure it'll be fine if you just wrap it."

"But, d'Artagnan, it's still bleeding," Filleul countered reasonably as he reached for the needle and thread. When the Gascon didn't offer his arm to be stitched, he paused in his movements. "Would you prefer that I get Aramis so he can place the stitches instead?"

'Yes!' a voice inside d'Artagnan's head screamed. Please, get my friend, my brother, who always distracts me from what he's doing with a quick smile, an engaging story, or a squeeze of his hand on my shoulder. Or better yet, tell Porthos to come, too. He'll regale me with stories of past missions, and comfort me with a hand on my leg or my chest, grounding me so the pain doesn't carry me away. No, better still, give me back my best friend. The man who assures me of his love even when scolding me, and who would give his life to protect mine.

Swallowing thickly as he noted the look of hesitation on Filleul's face, d'Artagnan shook his head. "No, it's fine, you can do it." Extending his arm to the other man, he looked away, unable to watch as someone who wasn't Aramis drew a needle through his flesh.

The task was completed in silence, but not without kindness, Filleul's movements slow and careful as if afraid of startling his patient. He leaned back once he'd finished, the wound now covered with a clean, white bandage. "All done."

d'Artagnan glanced down at his arm, the neatness of the bandaging job a stark contrast to the chaos that was currently his life. "Thank you," he breathed out softly, unsure exactly what he was thanking the other man for, but certain that it wasn't simply for tending his wound.

Filleul's bright blue eyes met his, and the warmth there briefly thawed a bit of the ice that had slowly been forming around d'Artagnan's heart since Athos had forgotten and forsaken him. "You're welcome," the man replied, his hand coming up to rest momentarily on the Gascon's shoulder in an action so reminiscent of his friends' that his heart skipped a beat.

Wordlessly, Filleul packed away the medical supplies he'd brought, replacing the chair from where he'd taken it before pausing for a moment in the doorway. "Please let me know if there's anything else you need."

d'Artagnan offered a distracted nod, already looking away before the other man's voice drew his attention back. "Remember, d'Artagnan, a Musketeer is never alone, so let me know if there's anything you need."

The implication of Filleul's words struck home and d'Artagnan thought that for a moment he might be bowled over by them. Pushing the ball of emotion in his throat aside, he replied, "I will; thank you."

Sensing that his message had been received, Filleul exited, leaving d'Artagnan to ponder the fact that he still had some friends within the ranks of the regiment. It was not the friends he ached for, but perhaps it would be enough to sustain him for a while longer. Toeing his boots off, he allowed his body to slip sideways onto the bed, his thoughts the tiniest bit less chaotic than when Filleul had arrived.

* * *

Aramis watched Filleul descend the stairs that connected the courtyard to the men's quarters. The other man paused as their gazes locked, and he offered the marksman a soft smile that turned up the corners of his lips. Aramis returned the smile, his expression edged with relief at the fact that d'Artagnan's injury had been appropriately cared for.

He'd been momentarily stunned by the Gascon's reaction to his desire to tend to the wound that Athos had inflicted. Caring for his friends' hurts came to him as naturally as breathing. Until he'd gazed into d'Artagnan's pained eyes, it had never occurred to him that things between them may have changed so drastically that his attention would be unwelcome.

Aramis knew that the weeks since Athos' injury had been trying for the young man. He and Porthos had both attempted to speak on the Gascon's behalf. They had gently prodded Athos to remember his relationship with his protégé, or at the very least, to stop treating him so badly, as if d'Artagnan was to blame for everything he'd lost when the gap in his memory had been discovered.

The Athos they were dealing with now was so much more broken than their friend of two years' prior, his anguish ostensibly compounded by the sudden appearance of a fourth in their midst. The older man had never seemed to be fond of change, but in this instance, he actively fought against it, rejecting outright the idea that d'Artagnan was anything but another inexperienced soldier in their ranks.

Aramis had noted the haunted expression on Athos' face and he understood that the former Comte did what he did not out of malice, but from a deep need to protect himself from getting hurt even further. The point where Athos' memories ended corresponded with a time where the wounds of betrayal and loss were still relatively fresh, and the older man had seamlessly fallen back into his less than healthy coping strategies – drinking too much wine, enduring broken sleeps peppered with vivid nightmares, and pushing all but those closest to him away. Sadly, the circle of those Athos trusted was woefully small, necessitating nearly all of Aramis' and Porthos' attention to keep their friend from imploding.

The result was that all three men were worn to the bone, their emotions too close to the surface to adequately control. Despite their best intentions, Aramis and Porthos had little left to offer their fourth, and things between them had continued to unravel at an almost dizzying rate – that was made more than evident by d'Artagnan's reaction when he'd been hurt.

Though it pained him enormously, Aramis had reached the difficult decision to respect d'Artagnan's need to distance himself; however, he'd been unable to let things drop until he'd satisfied himself that the Gascon was alright. That need had prompted him to ask Filleul to check on the lad, hoping that d'Artagnan would be willing to accept care from another.

That d'Artagnan had agreed imbued Aramis with a mixture of relief and sadness, leaving him wondering if they would ever return to their previous solidarity in which he'd once more be trusted with the young man's physical and emotional ills. With a last glance upwards to where the Gascon's room was located, Aramis pushed away from wall at his back, shifting his attention to the matter of tracking down his other two friends.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks to AZGirl for proofing; remaining mistakes are all mine.


	4. Hard Lesson

Part 4 of 4

d'Artagnan pinched the bridge of his nose for a brief moment, willing away the dull ache that had settled behind his eyes almost as soon as they'd set out that morning. It had been another of Treville's attempts to help the Inseparables regain their rhythm with one another. He suspected the only reason that all four of them had been dispatched was because the Captain was growing as weary of the discord between all of them as they were themselves. No matter Treville's intentions, d'Artagnan was certain that it had been a mistake to deploy them together, and one that he would rectify as soon as they'd returned home.

Home. The word brought d'Artagnan an immeasurable amount of sadness. At one time, he could never have dreamed of living his life anywhere else, doing anything else, but fighting, drinking and laughing alongside his friends. Athos' injury had stolen all that away from him. Worse yet, he had no other home to return to, with his farm in ruins and the last of his immediate family gone and buried next to an inn outside of Paris. The idea of starting over again bowed his shoulders, making him appear far older than his actual age.

Their journey thus far had given Athos plenty of opportunities to voice his dislike of the man who must seem like an interloper in their midst. The older man had criticized d'Artagnan's slight build, which he was certain would put his brothers-in-arms at risk; his quietness, which must mean that he either had something to hide or was merely spying on the others' conversations; and his complete lack of backbone, which had resulted in him being assigned to a mission that he clearly should have refused to go on – as if d'Artagnan's wishes had anything to do with his current circumstances. The only thing that had made the ride even moderately tolerable were Porthos' and Aramis' repeated admonishments, as they attempted to put a stop to Athos' intermittent, vile commentary.

Through all of the loudly voiced rants, sideways glances, and outright hostile glares that Athos had tossed his way, d'Artagnan had gritted his teeth and maintained both his silence and his distance. The past weeks had been incredibly challenging, and he'd eventually learned that it was best if he faded into the background; it had been a hard lesson to learn, but he would not be swayed from it now that he'd mastered it.

He released a long, slow sigh, taking care to exhale softly so that his friends would remain unaware that he was awake – again. His insomnia was an almost regular occurrence now, but he still refused to burden his friends with that knowledge, suffering in silence through night after long and lonely night. Once again, he had the middle watch, and could hardly wait until he was _woken_ , allowing him to give up the pretense of sleep.

The low murmur of voices startled him, and he had to work hard at not letting it show in his body. Porthos was currently standing guard, but from the sound of things, he wasn't the only one awake. d'Artagnan strained to quiet his breathing further so he might catch some part of the conversation that was taking place.

"This has got to end, 'Mis." Porthos' deep baritone floated across their small camp, despite the fact that he was taking great care to keep his voice low.

"Don't you think I know that?" Aramis hissed in reply, silence falling for the span of several heartbeats before he spoke again. "Sorry, I just don't know what else to do at this point."

Porthos' tone was conciliatory when he replied. "I know that 'Mis, and what's happening isn't your fault."

d'Artagnan could almost imagine the marksman scrubbing a hand tiredly through his curls as he said, "I know." Seconds passed before the words were repeated, making the Gascon believe that Porthos had offered his friend a look of disbelief. "I _do_ know that, Porthos. That doesn't change the fact that I second-guess myself every second of every day. What if something I did or didn't do has caused this?"

The sound of creaking leather indicated movement, and d'Artagnan envisioned Porthos moving closer to Aramis to comfort him. "You tellin' me you honestly believe there was something more you could have done that would 'ave produced a different outcome? Some mistake or something you missed that would have stopped Athos from forgettin' the past two years?" The questions were heavily edged with doubt.

"I…I don't know," Aramis eventually replied, his tone so unlike his normal cocky assurance that it made d'Artagnan's heart clench in empathy for his friend.

"Aramis," Porthos coaxed, knowing that his friend had done everything humanly possible, and that fate had taken the situation out of their hands. Unfortunately, his certainty wasn't enough – the marksman needed to arrive at the same conclusion before he'd shed the cloak of guilt he'd been wearing. "Aramis," he repeated, prodding his friend to respond.

"Head wounds are complicated," the medic began, only to be interrupted by an obviously exasperated Porthos.

"Aramis, stop that already," the large man scolded without heat. "We have no control over the past, so it doesn't help to dwell on it. Instead, we need to figure out how to make things right in the present."

The marksman snorted softly. "And yet it's the past that's causing all our current problems, isn't it?" d'Artagnan could almost hear the eye roll that accompanied Porthos' frustrated sigh. "Alright, alright, I agree – we need to put what's happened behind us and find a way forward." Aramis' voice turned wistful as he added, "A way forward that includes all four of us." Unknown to the Gascon, the comment had Porthos wearily nodding, the large man just as pained as Aramis was by their current situation.

Silence descended, and d'Artagnan could almost feel the weight of his friends' gazes on his back. He willed himself not to react, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and his limbs slack. Seconds later, Porthos broke the stillness again. "We managed to get through to him once; surely we can do it again."

'Him? Him, who?' d'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder. Surely his friends weren't suggesting that he was the problem.

"God, if it were only that simple. Time has been kind to you, my friend," Aramis stated, his tone now colored with amusement. "Have you honestly forgotten how difficult it was? That damn stubborn streak of his – keeps him alive, but makes living with him seem almost impossible."

d'Artagnan swallowed audibly, cursing silently as he prayed that the two men couldn't hear the sound. They'd always called him stubborn. Sometimes it was said in conjunction with some harebrained plan, which nearly got him killed. Other times it was with a hint of exasperated pride that he'd once more managed to deprive the Reaper of another soul. Regardless of the context, he knew one thing for certain – the trait was most often associated with him.

"That may be true, but we didn't let Athos push us away last time, any more than we'll let him do so this time. Maybe it's just a matter of being patient," Porthos allowed.

"Something which neither of us excels in, any more than our young friend over there," Aramis replied, his gaze again drifting to the slumbering Gascon.

"Look, I'm gonna go wake him," Porthos decided. "Get some rest and we'll talk more after we've both had some sleep."

d'Artagnan listened to the quiet rustling as Aramis laid down. Porthos waited for several minutes more before his light footfalls announced his presence at the Gascon's back. A hand landed lightly on his shoulder, and d'Artagnan revelled in the touch, his loneliness spiking once more as the simple act highlighted how little he'd experienced such consideration over the last few weeks.

"d'Artagnan, you awake?" the large man softly asked.

Though he hadn't slept, he also didn't want to open his eyes and once more be faced with the painful reality his life had become. Porthos' hand gently nudged his shoulder and he sighed, realizing that hiding behind closed lids wouldn't change a thing. "I'm awake."

He sensed Porthos leaning away as the touch on his shoulder disappeared, finally opening his eyes before flipping his blanket off so he could rise. He was surprised when, moments later, the large man had squatted down in front of him, hands now resting on both his upper arms. "You alright?" Porthos asked, staring intensely into the Gascon's eyes.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan replied, his feeling of being unbalanced renewed with the question.

Porthos held his friend's gaze for several seconds, the intensity of his scrutiny beginning to unnerve d'Artagnan. Finally, the large man's inspection ended. "It'll be alright, you know. I need you to believe it'll be alright." With those words Porthos stood and walked over to his bedroll, trusting that the Gascon was aware enough to take over his duties.

d'Artagnan remained sitting for another minute as he allowed his friend's words to roll around in his head. _"I need you to believe it'll be alright."_ Was he capable of such hope, he wondered. After all, hope required something in which to ground itself, a foundation from which it could flourish and grow. Given all that he'd lost, was there anything left for him to hold onto?

 _They'd just returned from delivering a missive on behalf of the King, d'Artagnan having been a last-minute addition when their assigned fourth had become ill after the morning meal. Athos had acted the way he normally did around the Gascon – that is, the way which had become the norm since losing two years of memories. The mission was mercifully short, only taking them out of Paris for a few hours, but it had been more than enough time for d'Artagnan to feel the renewed sting of Athos' disdain for him, and he was now both exhausted and relieved to be away from the older man._

 _"_ _d'Artagnan," a hand clapped down on his shoulder, startling him at the unexpectedness of the touch. Vasseur's expression softened in apology as he asked, "A few of us are heading to The Boar to relax. Why don't you come along?"_

 _The invitation was wholly unexpected and left the Gascon speechless. It wasn't that he'd never spent time in the company of others within the regiment, but it was more often by chance rather than by choice when he and his friends had ended up at the same establishment as their fellow Musketeers. In fact, d'Artagnan was hard-pressed to recall the last time he'd gone drinking with anyone but one or all of the Inseparables._

 _"_ _d'Artagnan?" Vasseur was still waiting for an answer, and beyond the man's shoulder, the Gascon could see a group of men loosely gathering, clearly waiting on them. 'Could he do this?' he asked himself. The idea of leaving his drab and quiet room behind for a night held an appeal that was almost intoxicating. Losing himself in drink, while not his typical coping mechanism, would allow him to forget, if only for a night, the grief that was his stalwart companion each day and every long, sleepless night._

 _"_ _d'Artagnan?" Vasseur's voice was tinged with concern as he stared at the unresponsive man in front of him. The Gascon badly wanted to reply, to accept the other man's invitation for companionship, but fear had him frozen in place. What if he went and began to forge new friendships? What guarantee did he have that he wouldn't find himself once more in a similar position to what he now faced? And what of Aramis and Porthos? What would they think of him for so swiftly having replaced them with others? Could the bonds they'd forged even be replaced?_

 _Shaking himself from his reverie, his mind a tumultuous mix of conflicting thoughts, d'Artagnan finally replied. "Sorry, but no."_

 _Vasseur's expression fell in sincere disappointment, prompting d'Artagnan to try and offer some type of explanation. "I appreciate the invitation – really, I do – it's just that I'm afraid I'd be rather poor company tonight."_

 _"_ _It's just sitting around and drinking, d'Artagnan," Vasseur countered, his eyes twinkling. "No one expects you to be a brilliant conversationalist."_

 _The Gascon dipped his head shyly, a slight grin tugging at his lips, but his mind was made up. Lifting his gaze, he sadly shook his head. "No, really, but thank you."_

 _The look that crossed Vasseur's face suggested that he knew exactly what he was being thanked for, and he squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder lightly before releasing it and moving away. The Gascon watched the men head toward the garrison gates, a few lifting a hand to wave to him as they left. d'Artagnan returned the gesture, a part of his heart aching with the desire to follow, his countenance just a shade lighter than it had been minutes earlier._

In the days that had followed, Vasseur and some of the others had continued to check on him, showing up with a small treat when d'Artagnan hadn't eaten, inviting him to join them during meal times, and simply ensuring that his world didn't narrow down to only himself while his other friends were inexplicably absent. It wasn't much, but perhaps it had sustained him for a short while longer. Whether that would continue to be the case was yet to be seen.

End.

* * *

 **A/N:** That's it for this series of tags. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and favorited. My gratitude to AZGirl for allowing me to piggy-back on her story and also for proofing this one. Any remaining mistakes are all mine. Till next time!


End file.
